


Or From That Sea of Time

by SummonerLuna



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:48:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6384520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummonerLuna/pseuds/SummonerLuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call him The Sea Walker, and there are worse things he could be. He holds himself together by holding onto her. [Squall, and witches at the end of the world.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Or From That Sea of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irishais](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishais/gifts).



> for irishais, inspired by her fic 'singing hallelujahs in the dark'

In twenty, forty, fifty years, he will still walk along the sea.

 

 _“It’s the witches house,”_ they will whisper, and they are not wrong. Old and derelict as it has always been, so overgrown the stones are barely visible anymore, and the flowers that grow out of sand can only be because of magic.

 

He brushes past rosemary as tall as he is when he approaches the garden gate, and it creaks when he pushes it open. It latches behind him, a soft click that is quickly swallowed by the courtyard garden that so many local children dare each other to enter. Squall pauses; there are new footsteps between the cracked paver stones, and someone has been there recently. He knows something has gone missing, but can’t remember the names of the flowers here. They were planted with the understanding they would be stolen, anyway. Trophies for the brave. He isn’t angry; half a century ago a group of children planted flowers here and did not fear. He knows they would have dared each other to sneak into a garden and bring some proof of entry if they’d been born in this time instead.

 

“You’re becoming a legend in your own right,” Ellone tells him, over tea. The wind that crosses the dunes is gentle, and shallow waves roll in under a bright grey sky.

 

“What do you mean?” he asks, already knowing the answer. He has seen the change, over the years. As the town grew up and the house wore down, as generations too young to remember took over for their parents and history fell further and further into the past. It’s a relief, not to be a hero, and if they think he is strange, think he is frightening for his weekly visits to the house at the end of the road, he does not mind.

 

“They call you ‘The Sea Walker,’” she says. “You could talk to people every once in awhile, you know.”

 

“I have nothing to say to them.”

 

She makes a _tsking_ sound, but they share a smile, and sit until their tea is cold and the morning clouds start to break. 

 

He stays for the day, repairing the railing on the patio, checking the seals on all the windows in preparation for the winter that will be here all too soon. Ellone brings in the first of the fall harvest and together they prepare bread; one for her, one for Squall to take home, and a few to add to her share at the open market the next day. She is a witch when she is in her home, but it doesn’t stop her market booth from drawing a crowd, the people of beach and rock at the end of the earth eager for fresh plants and herbs, for her teas and soaps made out of the very garden they fear.

 

Edea wakes briefly at sunset, and Squall helps her to her chair, and wheels her onto the patio so she can watch the sun sink into the ocean. She never recovered from losing Cid, even so many years after she passed on her powers, and now time and age have taken most of what she has left. But she remembers the setting sun, and in those moments, she remembers them as well. Squall tucks her blanket more tightly around her and Ellone sits and holds her hand, and the three of them watch the sky turn from orange, to pink, to violet, and finally to the muted indigo of twilight. The first star of the evening blinks above them, and Edea sighs, and looks around her.

 

“Did I smell baking, earlier?” she asks.

 

“It’s Saturday,” Ellone says, and leans in to kiss Edea’s cheek. “Tomorrow is market day. There will be plenty for us this week.”

 

Edea smiles, and Squall looks to his sister and she nods.

 

“It’s time for me to go, Matron,” Squall says. Edea turns slowly to him and it takes her eyes a moment to focus, and when they do he sees the hurt, the guilt she still carries. It is the one thing he wants her to forget, and it will be the last thing to go.

 

“Tell her—“

 

“—that you love her. Nothing more,” he says. He squeezes her hand and she beckons him in for a weak embrace, and Ellone sends him home with bread and tea, and calls him sea-walker as he approaches the squeaky gate. He makes a note to fix it the next time he is here.

 

.

 

He opens the front door of a plain house with a plain garden, and walks through the dark kitchen to a darker bedroom, and finds her on the balcony, watching the lights of ships blink somewhere on the horizon. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t seem to notice when he enters, save for a feeling inside of him that shifts as he draws closer.

 

He says nothing. Squall sits beside her and takes her hand, and watches the reflection of ships and starlight in Rinoa’s hollow eyes. He sits with her until the moon begins to rise, bright white light reflecting off the blue whorls that decorate her face. They always shine the brightest in the moonlight.

 

“Edea says she loves you,” he says. He receives no response.

 

Squall goes to bed alone, and wakes up when he feels her join him. He turns and holds her to him, wondering if she can feel it this time. He spent years, trying to help her, trying to stop her from absorbing everything, trying to take some of her burden. Years of her accusing him of wanting to “fix” her, when they both knew she was nothing, nobody to be fixed. And now, finally, all he can do is hold her, and he has accepted that it is enough.

 

He falls back to sleep quickly, and wakes only once more before sunrise. Once, when he thinks he feels her tighten her hands around his arms and press herself closer to him. Once, when the months, the years of watching her turn herself to stone to trap the chaos inside, of allowing her to freeze in front of him and only being able to stand beside her may be worth it. Once, that might have been a dream. Once.

 

She doesn’t wake until well after sunrise, and when she does she goes straight to her chair overlooking the sea without a word. _The Sea-Walker,_ he thinks, and watches her over his cup of coffee.

 

HIs arms shimmer where he felt her hands tighten around him in the night, and it is enough.


End file.
